Trust - Chapter 14

When the call came in about a crazy boy on Pendrake Drive, Officer Susie Sczerba turned to her partner and moaned. "Wanna take bets, Moll? It's gonna be drugs again. Damn kid probably thinks he's Superman or something."

Officer Molly Quinn shook her head. She'd been on the force ten years, to Sczerba's two, and it could be drugs--but then again, it could be something else. You saw some weirdness in Sunnydale, and that was no lie. Observation--when they'd turned onto Pendrake and started tailing the boy down the residential block, smoothly and silently, so as not to spook him--confirmed her theory. This was some Weird Shit. With all appropriate capital letters.

The boy was staggering, as if he might be drunk, but his shoulders were hunched and he looked scared, sure, but more than anything else purely exhausted. About the time he ran full-tilt into one of the Pendrake's overgrown elm trees, she made Suze stop the car.

"You're not...?" Susie began.

"I don't know. He looks sick to me, maybe." Molly had two kids of her own. She knew what sick kids looked like, well enough, and though this boy had to be about twice the age of her sons, her mother's eye still picked up the signs.

"Which means what? He's gonna puke in the back of our car?" her partner asked, but she did pull over.

Molly climbed out, snapping on a pair of latex gloves as she went. This close she could see blood on the boy's hands, and he had some sort of dirty bandage flapping loose from his neck as well. She got past him easily, but even when she stepped right out in front of him, he barely registered her presence. "Stop," she called out to him softly. "Do you need help? I'm a police officer."

The boy sat down suddenly on a knobby root that stuck out of the ground. "Help? What can help?" he answered, his voice all choked up with tears. Under the yellow-green of the streetlights, his face looked alarmingly pale, his eyes like big, dark pits. His clothes were filthy, crusted with some kind of stuff that could have been paint, or vomit, or dried pond-scum for all Molly could tell. He smelled funky, too, making her wish she had a face-mask to go with her gloves.

"What's your name?" she asked, trying to keep her voice level, although something about this one scared her, for reasons she equally couldn't have named. Those eyes, she guessed, had seen way too much for someone his age--which had to be around seventeen, eighteen, tops. Hell, they'd seen too much for someone her age. "Do you want us to call your parents?"

The boy shook his head, emphatically, no.

"Any adult then? Who do you live with?"

"No one to call," he said. "Not now. Not anymore." Then he started to cry, the exact same way her littlest one did when he woke up from a bad dream, his hands over his face because his daddy had told him that big boys don't cry. She'd given Carl the rough side of her tongue over that one. Her ex could be such an asshole, sometimes.

"Runaway?" Susie mouthed over the boy's head, and Molly thought that was probably true--only she didn't want to meet whatever this one had been running away from.

Cautiously, against procedure, she touched the boy's arm and his dark eyes flashed up to hers, just for a minute, with a look of strange innocence. His skin had been hot, too hot--she could feel that even through her glove.

"Xander," he said, belatedly, apparently answering her previous question.

"Well, Xander," Molly told him. "We're gonna take you to Sunnydale General, have you checked out. That sound okay to you?"

The boy shrugged. "They know me there."

"All right then." She offered him a hand, but the boy didn't take it, even though he staggered again when he got up on his own. It took both Molly and her partner (with some reluctance on Susie's part) to steer him to the car, and then he just kind of fell inside, like all his bones had melted suddenly, and he couldn't stand up anymore.

Suze had been right. He did throw up in the back of the car. Twice. And after the second time his thin body went on with the worst case of dry heaves she'd seen in her life, all the way to the hospital. Molly was thankful when the doctors and nurses in the ER took over--she'd been half afraid the kid would die on her.

She left Susie--senior officer's prerogative--on clean up duty and went inside to handle the paperwork, glad to see her bowling buddy, Doris McCray, behind the desk.

"Hey, Moll," the nurse said, glancing up from the rapid notes she'd been making on a chart. "You brought in the Harris boy?"

"Is that his name? All we got was 'Xander.' Runaway?"

"Nah." Doris glanced down at her chart again, seemed to find everything satisfactory and shut the covers with a sharp snap. "Local kid. Repeat customer. I think it's the father, but the boy's eighteen, so what can we do?"

"His father beats him?" Child-beaters, like spouse-beaters, topped the list of people Molly would cheerfully have seen burn in hell.

"Just a theory," Doris answered, reaching for the phone. "You know this damn town, Molly."

Molly did, only too well. She kept her beliefs to herself, not wanting to be taken for a nut, but she'd seen some real creeps out on the street at night, and she'd also, from a distance, seen a cute little blonde girl kicking the stuffing out of them.

Just before they exploded into dust.

It came to her that the kid they'd picked up looked familiar, and that was why--she'd seen him with that girl. Him, and a little red-head, and sometimes an older guy. There were others, too, but those three stuck out.

"He's a friend of the girl. The little blonde," Molly tried, fishing for info. If you caught Doris in the right mood, she could be quite the font of gossip.

Doris gave her a look, putting the phone down again. "Buffy."

"You see her a lot, too?"

"Not so much. She's a tough little cookie. Heals fast. Mr. Giles, though--he's on the frequent users plan. Speaking of which, I should call him, probably. About Xander."

For a minute, it hung on Molly's lips to ask her friend what was out there, really out there, what that strange little group was fighting that put them on a first-name basis with the ER staff. But then she backed away from the question. Some things it was better not to hear put into words, and Doris's eyes said she agreed with that.

"He told me there wasn't anyone to call. Xander did. That there wasn't anyone anymore."

Behind them, the double doors slammed open, a Gurney speeding past them up the hall while the EMT's spouted medicalese Molly didn't have to understand to know that the person on the stretcher was in a bad way. He'd been bloody, his body arched awkwardly off the thin mattress, his breathing harsh and loud.

Doris set down the phone, gently, once more. "I guess Xander was right," she said quietly.

They stood outside the doorway to St. Martin's in the Fields and listened to the music play inside. Mozart, Giles thought, smiling as the joyous notes soared heavenward. Celeste's white-gloved hand lay on his arm, perfectly still and steady. He was happy to be here with her, but nervous, terribly nervous--it was a good job she remained so calm.

"You look lovely," he told her. "But then, you always look lovely."

Behind the veil, Celeste's great, dark eyes smiled at him. Her grip on his arm tightened slightly. "We've loved having you here," she answered.

Giles raised his hands, intending to lift her veil and kiss her silken cheek just once before they took this walk, that was sure to seem long, even though it could be no more than a matter of a few red-carpeted yards. Celeste stopped him with a touch.

"I don't understand," Giles told her.

"But you do, Rupert. You do." Her fingers whispered over his own cheek. "It's time to go back now."

"I..." he began to protest. "That is, Celeste, I..."

"Ssh," she told him, fingertips moving to his mouth. "Xander's made the wish. It's time."

"I'm afraid," he confessed, knowing suddenly that on the other side of the door there would be no priest, no joyous bridegroom, no flowers, only fear and more pain.

"You're strong, Rupert," Celeste told him. "Even when you don't believe. You'll make your way. Think of Buffy."

"Buffy?" Giles echoed, confused--but then an image came to him, sunlight filled with the scent of vanilla flowers, a small hand curled round his, stronger than his own would ever be.

Suddenly, despite everything, it became imperative that the doors open, that he hasten his way through. Buffy was waiting. His Buffy...

There came a muffled explosion, a booming noise from a distant somewhere, and he was running, running, into the grey, into the darkness and the cold and the loneliness, knowing that he would not, after all, be lonely when he arrived. She would be there, awaiting him.

And when there was nowhere left for him to run, he fell.

She was running, harder and faster than she'd ever run, even before her body had been ruined by the fall and the glass and the thrusting steel spike, running at a time that would surely have beaten any she'd clocked in her Olympic triumphs.

She must reach Rupert's place, must reach Rupert himself, and everything would be safe, everything would make sense again.

And there, suddenly, she was, stumbling down the steps that led to his flat door, pounding on the iron-clad wood with its half-hidden pattern of crosses. No answer came, and panic grew in her. Inside. She must get inside. Inside was safety and Rupert's soft, reasonable voice to explain all of this, pushing back her madness, as it had done so many times before.

At last, when the door opened, it was not Rupert who stood framed in the light, but rather a young woman, tousled and frowsty with sleep, who clutched a small flickering sphere of what appeared to be blown glass in one hand.

Too impatient or, perhaps, panicked for manners, she pushed her way inside.

"So, this is it, Moira?" the young woman said. "You're back?"

She marveled at that. Yes, Moira was her name. She was Moira, and this young woman's name was...

Moira paused, racking her brains. Buffy. This was Buffy, the vampire Slayer. Buffy, whom Rupert loved. And she...

She was a Watcher, and something else besides. She was...

She was afraid, so afraid, and the young woman must have seen it in her face, for her voice grew gentle. "I'm sorry. You're freaked. Of course you're freaked. Who wouldn't be?" Carefully, she steered Moira to the sofa, tugging on her arms until Moira's legs folded and she sat.

"That's not the outfit you were buried in," Buffy said, then clapped her hand over her mouth, as if suddenly cognizant of making a grave mistake.

Moira laughed, unsteadily. Grave mistake? Buried? Her own hands trembled, and she folded them tightly together in her lap.

"Do you want some tea?" Buffy asked her. "I can make you tea. English style. Giles taught me."

She was English. She was English and a Watcher, and her name was Moira. She shivered violently, and it came to her that she'd arrived wearing nothing but a flimsy cotton garment with ties up the back, such as one was given in hospital.

"Tea," Buffy repeated, and left for the small, open kitchen. Soon, Moira heard a kettle boil.

"Milk?" Buffy's voice rang out, too loud for that confined space--but then, the girl was American. Americans always sounded loud to her.

Did she take milk in her tea?

"Yes," Moira answered softly. "Milk. Please."

Buffy brought the tea in mugs, very white, but strong enough to put fur on one's tongue. She had to raise the cup to Moira's lips, for Moira's hands shook too badly to hold it on her own.

"I've been..." There had been coldness, and a river, but then, she'd expected exactly those things. The river that pulled one deeper and deeper into death, until there could be no turning back. She'd held herself, though, inside the first gateway, pulled at by wind and water, abused by the creatures who dwelt in that place, waiting and waiting for the call she'd begun to believe would never come.

And yet...

"Here I am," Moira said, wondering at her body, solidly there upon the sofa, her hands, strong as they'd ever been, for all their unsteadiness. "Buffy, he did it," she exclaimed in wonder. Rupert brought me back."

"Yeah, " Buffy answered, "And don't think I'm not glad to see you, 'cause I am. Only the big question is, where is he?"

Moira sought the young woman's eyes again. "Not here, Buffy? Not with you?"

Buffy recaptured her little glass ball, turning the bauble round and round in her hands. "No, Moira," she answered briefly, sadly. "Not with me."

The sight of his hand disturbed him, but Wesley couldn't actually feel it any more, except as a weirdly tingling sensation quite near to where his fingertips once had been. Understandably, he hadn't liked to touch the sword again, afraid of a repeat of the terrible and instantaneous burning he'd suffered before, but the forest was dark and full of uncanny noises, and he'd no other weapon available.

This time, when he'd touched the hilt, he'd felt only a mild, electrical jolt--a fairly pleasant sensation, actually. It seemed the sword had accepted him.

And why wouldn't it? He was human, after all. No more a creature of evil and darkness with a soul somehow spread thinly over the top, like butter over too much bread.

Or so his juddering heartbeat and too-rapid breathing told him, even as he grinned at the flimsiness of his own simile. Wesley wasn't certain if fear or shock made him so, but he felt strangely unconnected to the earth, light-headed. He caught himself jumping at every crackle of a twig.

Nature, he decided, was decidedly overrated--especially in a place so unnatural as this wood. Wesley staggered between the dark, gnarled trees, clutching the sword-hilt like magic talisman (as, perhaps, it was) in his good hand, whilst he tried to keep panic in abeyance. It didn't do to panic in a place like this. To lose one's head in even an ordinary forest could be dangerous, and he'd had, quite frankly quite enough of danger.

Perhaps he could find a post teaching obscure languages at some university, and never again go out at night.

Wesley laughed suddenly, marveling in the sound. He was human! Soon now, he would leave this forest, and when the sun rose, he would feel its warmth on his face. He would eat ordinary food amongst ordinary people, walk and talk and laugh, just as other living beings did those things. He was free!

Imagine Xander bringing him back to life. He quite wanted to embrace the boy. He was alive! Alive! Impossibly, wonderfully alive. The very idea made him want to jump and shout, gambol, frolic, perhaps even dance--although Wesley knew he'd do none of those things. The very idea made him laugh again. No, such activities were unthinkable, but he might still cherish the notion of them within his beating heart.

God, to taste again. To smell with something beyond a predator's hunger, a predator's need. It came to Wesley that the forest smelled odd, and he smelt terrible. Everything he was wearing would have to be instantly binned, if not burned, the moment he got home.

And would she be there, his Emmy, smiling up sleepily from their bed, her arms reaching for him, pulling him down, close to her warmth. He would lie with her all day, make love to her until he was no longer capable--or, perhaps, merely watch her: the curve of her lashes against her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, her mobile mouth...

She must be there. Everything...must be.

Wesley thought of Giles then, and his conscience panged him. Even as he'd begun to drink, he'd known the older man was too weak to supply his need, that he should stop at once, but once the blood touched his tongue he'd been helpless to turn back. Demon ascendent, he'd drunk and drunk, oblivious to the thin and bitter taste in his mouth, oblivious to anything beyond his own desires.

Shamed, sickened, he dropped the sword, clapping his good hand over his mouth as he tried to remember all the lessons he'd been taught for combating nausea, for overmastering one's self in the face of horror--to no avail. His stomach expelled all that remained of what he'd so ruthlessly taken, and he knew the memory of that repulsive flavour would haunt him to the end of his days. How could he have been...what he had been?

But Giles would be back, Wesley was certain. Pray God it was so, or the guilt of the loss would be bound to destroy him. How could he return to his Emmy, knowing what he'd done to her dearest friend? How could he return to himself, to his old life?

Wesley forced himself into belief. Wouldn't the restoration of Giles's life be the intent of Xander's wish? Naturally, it would. Behind his mocking ways, the boy worshiped him.

Actually, it amazed Wesley, still, that Xander had wished so wisely, when, for a moment, he'd thought everything irretrievably lost, all their sufferings pointless. Yet, here he was home again, in his own living body, and...

Wesley's knees collapsed as if his legs had been cut from beneath him, and he fell, abrading his cheek on rough tree-bark. Many moments passed before he could drag himself upright again, and then it was only to see something looming over him, dark within the darkness. Something that smelled powerfully of malice and magic.

"No," Wesley breathed, raising the sword before him.

The invisible beast in the darkness laughed, a terrible sound, thick and wet as glue. Was it the Time Robber, Wesley wondered, come to wreak revenge for the spoilage of its nest? Or had he merely, by some extraordinary bad stroke of luck, happened across another monster entirely?

Wesley wormed his way backward along the uneven ground, feeling foolish, ridiculous even, but, miraculously, not afraid. He'd no impulse to tremble, or scream, no impulse, really, to do anything but preserve the life he'd won back at such cost.

He made himself rise, straighten, the blade held upright before him, flickering in the blackness of the forest.

"Stupid little man," said the demon in the night. "You believe you can defeat me with a simple sword?. I have faced a thousand knights with swords, every one of them braver, stronger, more clever than you."

"No doubt," Wesley answered, in his old, prim Watcher's voice. "But, you see, it's rather a special sword."

He swung blindly then, just as Xander had back in the cavern, and with much the same result: a monstrous hand dropped to earth at his feet.

"Come closer now," Wesley taunted, amazed by his own temerity, "I'll show you what we did to your mum. Or your mate. Whichever she may have been. And to all your pretty eggs, as well."

The demon made a low sound, rather like steam escaping from a kettle. He'd guessed correctly, then.

"Afraid, are you?" Wesley waved the sword. "Cowardly, Cowardly Custard! Have at me!"

Good heavens, he asked himself, Are you six years old, or merely deranged? Is this the manner in which you confront demons?

It was, Wesley decided. Actually, he'd confront demons in whatever way he bloody well chose. It wasn't as if the Council would be having a say, was it?

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he sang.

And now I'm in need of a tall crown and a large pink frock, Wesley thought, laughing again. Most likely it was the shock of his injured hand, but he honestly couldn't help himself.

"I've better things than this to do," he added, still laughing, knowing all at once that the monster had crept up behind, that any moment now it would charge, and catch hold of him, the vicious claws on its remaining hand opening his spine like a lobster.

"Help me with this?" he asked the sword, and at that moment turned, the blade already in flight, finding without error the demon's throat and cleaving head from body.

Just as the demon queen's had done, this head blinked and grimaced for quite some while, but Wesley ignored it utterly. "For Mr. Briggs," he said quietly. "He was a fine man, and deserved far better than the shabby likes of you."

Carefully, then, Wesley bent, wiping the sword against the dark moss until it had been thoroughly cleaned of the demon's defiling ichor. Already, the corpse had begun to decay, breaking down into soil as he watched.

"A useful thing you are," he told the weapon, still grinning like a fool. "And don't think I shan't miss you, only I believe it's time you went to Buffy now. She's a real hero, you see, and I'm just some poor berk who got lucky."

As if in agreement, the blade's light winked out, leaving him alone in the darkness, the forest creaking and shivering all round him.

Wesley found that, actually, he didn't mind in the least.